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This individual has long been known as a truly outsized character. Sharp and not prone to sentiment – and hardly ever declining to an extra drink. At family parties, he would be the one chatting about the latest scandal to catch up with a local MP, or amusing us with accounts of the notorious womanizing of various Sheffield Wednesday players over the past 40 years.

Frequently, we would share Christmas morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. But, one Christmas, roughly a decade past, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, with a glass of whisky in hand, his luggage in the other, and sustained broken ribs. He was treated at the hospital and told him not to fly. So, here he was back with us, doing his best to manage, but appearing more and more unwell.

The Morning Rolled On

The morning rolled on but the anecdotes weren’t flowing in their typical fashion. He maintained that he felt alright but his condition seemed to contradict this. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

So, before I’d so much as don any celebratory headwear, my mother and I made the choice to get him to the hospital.

We considered summoning an ambulance, but what would the wait time be on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

By the time we got there, his state had progressed from peaky to barely responsive. Fellow patients assisted us get him to a ward, where the characteristic scent of institutional meals and air permeated the space.

What was distinct, however, was the mood. There were heroic attempts at holiday cheer in every direction, despite the underlying clinical and somber atmosphere; decorations dangled from IV poles and portions of holiday pudding went cold on nightstands.

Positive medical attendants, who undoubtedly would have preferred to be at home, were moving busily and using that great term of endearment so peculiar to the area: “duck”.

A Quiet Journey Back

Once the permitted time ended, we returned home to lukewarm condiments and Christmas telly. We watched something daft on television, probably Agatha Christie, and took part in a more foolish pastime, such as a local version of the board game.

The hour was already advanced, and snow was falling, and I remember feeling deflated – had we missed Christmas?

Recovery and Retrospection

Even though he ultimately healed, he had truly experienced a lung puncture and subsequently contracted DVT. And, while that Christmas does not rank among my favorites, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

If that is completely accurate, or a little bit of dramatic licence, I am not in a position to judge, but its annual retelling has done no damage to my pride. True to his favorite phrase: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.